Austin’s Mom and Dad loved Kara, the “best thing to ever happen” to
Joseph his mother said, and she was, as was often the case with these
things, right.

The news thrilled them, brought Austin’s mom to tears, and she bawled like a baby when Joseph said Austin would be his best man.

Margaret prepared the guest room, as Joseph and Kara would stay 3 days,
through the weekend. Philip wrapped his arm around Kara, who adored the
big bear of a man who had treated her like family from the minute
Joseph said he loved her.

Joseph watched his fiance as she walked into the kitchen, following his
mother, wanting to help with dinner now that there were two uninvited,
though certainly not unwelcome, guests. Philip grabbed his shoulders
from behind, rubbing them firmly.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he said softly. Joseph smiled, those words still meaning as much as when he was a boy, if not more.

Dinner was wonderful, talk of the wedding, Austin’s pro career getting
underway, tales of the boys when they were younger. Philip and Margaret
recounted their wedding, and their courtship. No stress, no tension, no
worries. Just a good time.

Kara fell asleep on the couch watching TV, and Margaret and Philip
headed to bed shortly after. Joseph and Austin sat on the couch, Kara’s
head on Joseph’s lap, her feet on Austin’s leg.

“So, are you ready?” Joseph asked.

Austin chuckled a bit. “I don’t know, to be honest. I’m anxious, scared
and a whole list of feelings I don’t even know if there are words for.”

Joseph smiled. “You’re ready. You’ve been ready for years.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. Austin felt strange talking about
his career, knowing it long seemed Joseph would get his shot that never
materialized. And Joseph felt strange, too, for reasons he soon
admitted.

“I get mad at myself, A.J….mad for being jealous.”

Austin looked at his brother, who was looking down at Kara’s sleeping face, a source of power or guidance or just support.

“You’re allowed,” he replied.

Joseph shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re my brother, and I love you.
And I’m proud of you, and I have been forever. I shouldn’t be jealous,
I should be supportive…”

Austin stopped him. “You’ve been supportive, Joe. Always.”

“I haven’t called as much as I should have,” Joe answered. “I didn’t
encourage you during the summer when you were traveling to see all
these scouts, I didn’t call often after the war draft, and I sure
didn’t…”

Austin cut him off again. “Stop with all you ‘didn’t’ do, Joe. We’re
3,000 miles, 3 time zones and different lives apart. That’s not a
crime, and it’s nobody’s fault. You do what you can, and I
never…NEVER doubt for a second you’ve got my back.”

Joseph finally looked at him. “I always will.”

Philip heard from the hallway, up to use the bathroom, and thought to
himself how lucky he was to have the family he did. Never one for ego,
he allowed himself a self-congradulatory thought… I’ve done ok

And with that calming piece of mind, he went back to bed – ‘I’ve done
OK’ becoming ‘We’ve done OK’ as he held his wife – as his boys drifted
off on the couch.

A rythmic knock took his attention from his book, “Essential Statistics,” and for that he was thankful.

“Come in,” Austin called, sitting up in his bed, the wall lamp providing his room’s only light.

The door creaked open for an unexpected face.

“JOE!!!” Austin shouted and he bounded out of bed.

“Heya, pal,” his brother replied, the two sharing a tight hug. “Great to see you.”

Joseph had been in for Christmas, but was only able to stay 3 days.
Each night, the two stayed up late, talking about all that was going on
with Austin. With Joseph, Austin could cry, let loose if he needed to.
He could have around his father — he had, in fact — but with Joseph
it was easy to just let it out. He was embarrassed to cry around his
dad, and if he cried near his mother she would cry too, which just made
matters worse.

Still, 3 days was not enough time to have his big brother around. He
missed him terribly, and a part of him resented that he was so far
away, small of him as that was.

“What are ya doing here?” Austin asked. Joseph wasn’t supposed to be
here again until April, when he was going to have a convention to
attend in Manhattan.

“Well…”

Joseph opened the door wider. On the landing stood his girlfriend of 3
years, Kara. If you drew up the “girl next door,” it was her.
Fresh-faced with a smile like a picture, dirty blond hair and deep
green eyes, she laughed sweetly.

“Hiya,” she giggled, hugging Austin on her tiptoes to reach around his
neck. Kara was a college friend of Joseph’s who became more in his
junior year. When he moved out to California after graduation, she
decided the move would be good for her as well and she quickly found
work as an assistant for the District Attorney’s office.

Austin grabbed Kara’s hand as she backed away to lean against Joseph. “It’s so great to see…”

Austin’s voice stopped as his hand slid down Kara’s. His fingers were
blocked by a full-karat diamond ring. Kara laughed that little-girl
laugh again, as a broad smile came across Joseph’s face.

“Oh my God,” Austin stammered.

“We didn’t want to tell everyone over the phone,” Joseph said.

The three hugged together, Austin burying his head in his brother’s shoulder. “I am so happy for you.”

“Now, Rocket, I have a pitch of my own to make,” Joseph said, his hand
on Austin’s shoulder. “You’re the best brother, and my best friend. Now
I need you to do me the honor of being my best man.”

Austin smiled wide before hugging his brother again. “Absolutely, Joe. Absolutely.”

Kara cried with joy as she watched the two of them. Their bond always
struck her as something remarkable. The pride with which Joseph talked
about Austin. The way Austin idolized his big brother. It was simply
beautiful.

“So when’s the wedding,” Austin asked.

“Don’t worry…sometime in the offseason,” Joseph said with a grin.

They could hear their parents in through the back door, the rustling of
brown paper bags from food shopping echoing up the stairs.

“Come on,” Joseph said, throwing one arm around his fiance’, the other around his brother. “Got to tell mom and dad.”

The covers were still over his head. Austin hadn’t fallen asleep until
3 a.m. He and his parents had been up until midnight discussing his
options, the pros and cons of each.

The Mets were his team, and his dream was to pitch for them. But with
Grant being so dead set against him, he would be taking a huge risk to
tell Blanchard to go ahead with it. Not only that, but he also knew
he’d be setting Blanchard up for a fall, and Austin didn’t want someone
who had been in his corner and helped him so much to deal with any
negative repercussions for those actions.

But he also recognized that, had the Mets never entered the picture and
this whole military draft had never occurred, he surely wouldn’t have
been protesting about any team drafting him. So now, with all his
baggage, to object to anything just didn’t seem right.

Still, there was a decision to be made. And Austin had fallen asleep, finally, without a conclusion.

His mom had pancakes ready, blueberry pancakes. Sausage, too. And
coffee…lots of coffee. The tapestry lofted its way into his roof,
through the covers. Slowly, wearily, Austin rolled himself out of bed.
He sat hunched over, rubbing the bleariness out when, with 2 hard
knocks, the door opened.

“C’mon, Dukes,” his father said. “Blanchard will be here soon.”

Philip watched as Austin threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt
draped over the desk chair. He stepped into his sneakers sockless and
looked up at his father.

“That a sign?” he asked.

Austin looked down. It was unconscious — he was in no state to be
otherwise — but the sweatshirt said “Property of the New York Mets
baseball club.” He smiled.

“I don’t know, Dad,” he replied.

His father smiled and headed downstairs, Austin trailing close behind.

“What right do I have?” he asked.

His father went straight for the coffee, but Margaret playfully slapped his hand, admonishing his lack of manners.

“What do you mean?” his father asked.

“If I tell Mr. Blanchard to go ahead and push for me with the Mets, he
puts himself on the line for me, Dad. And do I want to put him, and Mr.
Scheffing, on the spot like that to have to deal with Grant?”, no
mister needed, or warranted, in his eyes.

His father rested his hand on his shoulder. “I applaud your
consideration, Austin. I do. But Blanchard offered because he believes
in you. He knows the risks, whatever they may be, from his end. If he
wasn’t willing to take them, he wouldn’t have offered.”

Austin sighed deeply as the doorbell rang. Philip answered, welcoming
Blanchard inside, taking his coat to the hall closet before escorting
him into the kitchen.

“I’d like you to meet my wife, Margaret,” Philip said.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he replied.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Blanchard,” Margaret said sweetly. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for Austin.”

Blanchard chuckled. “I haven’t done nothing but watched him, ma’am.
He’s a talent, and a hell of a good kid. You should be very proud.”

Austin smiled, looking downward as his parents both shot him prideful
glances. Blanchard was surely not telling them anything new.

The breakfast conversation was general. Austin and his parents filled
Blanchard in on the entire draft lottery episode, spoke of Austin’s
high school playing days, his education and his current schooling. His
father even talked about his playing days, which he rarely spoke of.
Dad was an exceptional athlete, and was a power-hitting third baseman
when he wasn’t pitching. He was eyed by several teams, but after the
war he gave it up, thinking his hand wouldn’t be able to take the
beating. It was time to get married, start a family, earn a living.

And he never looked back…at least not when anyone was watching.

After the meal and 3 cups of black coffee, Blanchard caught glimpse of Austin’s sweatshirt.

“So, you want to be our property, son?” he asked. Austin hated being
called that by people other than his parents, but Blanchard got a pass.

“You don’t have to do this for me, sir,” Austin said.

“Of course I don’t” Blanchard replied. “But that’s entirely irrelevant. What do YOU want?”

“To be a Met, sir.”

Blanchard leaned on the table, looking intently into Austin’s eyes.

“You’re in for a tough ride, kid. You know that, right?”

“No, sir,” Austin answered. “Getting shot at is a tough ride. This is just a dream.”

Blanchard stood up abruptly, thanking Margaret for her preparations and
for welcoming him into her home. He retrieved his jacket from the hall
closet.

“Austin, Mr. and Mrs. James…” Blanchard said before pausing. “I will
do all I can to make this dream come true. I promise you that.”

With a tip of his hat, Blanchard reached the front door.

“Austin,” he called.

Austin peered out from the kitchen. “Yes, sir.”

“Tomorrow…stay by the phone.”

And with that, Blanchard was gone.

Philip was surprised to hear from Blanchard again, especially sounding as though the conversation was urgent.

“Wasn’t expecting the call, Jesse,” Philip said. “What can I do for you?”

Blanchard coughed away from the phone, hacking and gasping in the midst of his third cigar of the night.

“I have a meeting tomorrow with Bob Scheffing. All the scouts get
together, compare notes, discuss and itemize the final lists before
draft day.”

Margaret watched the confused look across her husband’s face.

“Phil…Austin’s on my list. In fact, he’s going to top it.”

Philip turned his back against the countertop, leaning back, his chin in his chest as his free hand rubbed the back of his neck.

“I thought Grant wanted no part of this,” he said.

“Well,” Blanchard said with a slight laugh, “therein lies the rub.
Here’s the story…I want Scheffing to draft Austin, and will fight
like hell to get him to do just that on Tuesday.”

“What about Grant,” Philip wondered aloud. “Doesn’t he have to sign off on this?”

“Yes and no,” Blanchard replied. “Grant’s not around for the draft.
That’s what Bob’s there for. Bob makes the picks, and when it comes
time for contracts and money, that’s when Grant gets involved.”

Margaret sat at the kitchen table, trembling while getting only half
the story, her husband looking nowhere in particular, but in the
cracked linoleum floor’s general direction.

“So what does this mean for Austin?” Philip asked.

“I’ve been in this game a long time, Phil. I have contacts all over the
place, and my opinion is very well respected in this game. So you have
a decision to make. We can do this two ways: I can push Bob to draft
Austin, and hope we can convince Grant to sign the deal…”

Philip’s eyes grew wide with the thought, but the other shoe lingered. “Or…”

“Or,” Blanchard continued. “I can abandon this idea and start making
calls to other teams, other scouts, seeing if I can get one of them to
take your son. Had anyone else shown interest?”

The Phillies had said they would get back to him, but never did, though
Philip knew his summer performance there went well. The Braves and
Tigers also liked what they had seen, but had gone a while without
contact. Then…

“Sloan,” Philip blurted out intentionally.

“Come again?” Blanchard sputtered.

John Sloan was the Assistant Scouting Director of the Royals, and
Philip remembered their conversation vividly. Sloan said he would
check, and was high on Austin. Perhaps Blanchard would be the push to
get Austin in with Kansas City.

Kansas City?

“John Sloan, in Kansas City,” Philip said. “Philadelphia, the Braves…Tigers…them, too, but Sloan was highest on him.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do, Philip. I want Austin to get his
chance, I just can’t promise it will be here…hell, I can’t PROMISE
anything.”

Once the Mets entered the picture, nobody else was a thought, and
Philip knew it. Austin’s dream come true was there in front of him.
But, he thought, wouldn’t he be better playing somewhere else, getting
his chance somewhere…anywhere…rather than, well, not?

“I need to talk with Austin,” Philip said. “I can’t make this decision for him.”

“Be up early,” Blanchard said. “I’ll come by at 6 a.m. I’ll need to know then.”

And with a “good night,” Blanchard was gone, and Philip was frozen by confusion.

“What about Kansas City?” Austin asked from the bottom of the stairs,
where he’d been standing the past few minutes, his father’s
conversation halting his quest for the all-too-appropriate Rocky Road
in the freezer.

“Do you have anymore left in you?” Philip asked.

“Why?”

“Because we…because you have a choice to make.”

Philip James was under the hood of the Galaxie, fixing a transmission
line that left steam coming from under the hood right as he and Austin
had pulled into the driveway that night after running a few bags of old
clothes up to the drop at church.

There wasn’t much baseball talk since they left Shea a few days ago.
Austin was preparing for the start of the Spring semester at St.
John’s, for the time being having made school his focus. One thing the
blowup with Grant had done was rid him of the feeling of guilt for not
having reported to the military. If and when the government shows up,
he’ll go, and he’ll serve to the best of his abilities. But if a
screwup he had no part in was keeping him out of the firing line, he
sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize for taking advantage.

As for baseball, his glove had been in the bottom of his closet the
past few days, untouched. Resting in the webbing was the ball he threw
during his tryout…audition…whatever they wanted to call it. Those
two things had weighed on his mind constantly for the past 2 months,
every minute of every day. He wasn’t bursting with joy over going back
to school, but it was a diversion, and for now diversions were worth a
hell of a lot.

His father felt the same. The 10 minute transmission-line fix turned
into 90 minutes of tinkering and twisting, finding things to check and
recheck. Away from a phone, away from his notes…away from everything.

The only thing that crushed Margaret more than the silence was the
avoidance…the talk of things that didn’t matter to avoid talking
about what hurt them both. They were both let down, for different
reasons, and despite the baselessness of the feeling, each felt they
had let the other down.

Baseball was theirs. She was supportive, in fact she loved the game,
many a day spent at Ebbets Field as a young girl with her father and
Uncle Joe. She knew the game, and Philip adored that about her. But
baseball was a bond between the “men” in the family, though the limit
was largely self-imposed. Philip and Austin were more than father and
son, they were best friends. And a boy and his father need a bond to
call their own.

There was a fear, an irrational fear in both, that what was going on
was going to ruin that bond. They weren’t mad at each other, not in the
slightest. Baseball wasn’t the only link, just the most pronounced. And
if it ended, there would be a vacancy neither knew how to fill, at
least not right now.

She wanted to talk to them both, the men in her life. She set down her
book, open but not read this sitting, on the end table. The back door
slammed and Philip turned on the kitchen sink. She walked in silently,
moving behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist as he washed
his hands.

“Line is fixed and the fluids are all set,” he said as she rested her
head between his shoulders. “I think there’s a slow oil leak
though…shouldn’t have been that low.”

She held him tighter as he turned off the water and rested his hands on top of hers.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” he said softly.

Margaret kissed his back through a torn flannel shirt. “I know.”

Philip turned to his wife with a look of sadness she hadn’t seen in ages, not even when Austin’s lottery number came up.

“You went through hope together,” she said, caressing his face. “Don’t go through disappointment alone.”

Their embrace was pierced by the ringing phone. With a kiss on the forehead, Philip released Margaret from his grip to answer.

“James residence,” he picked up.

“Philip,” a smoky voiced Blanchard said across the line. “We need to talk.”

Blanchard had felt guilty for the whole weekend. His last pitch to
Grant was one that essentially pushed using Austin for attention. He
was only trying to play on Grant’s mindset, if you could call it that,
but he still felt guilty about it. His last words to Grant had nothing
to do with talent or ability, but on the attention carrying a —
semantics aside — draft dodger in the Mets organization could generate.

He sat in his den, sifting through scouting reports, listing players he
was interested in. Other scouts with the team would do so as well, then
meet with Scheffing and compare notes. From their, they would itemize
their draft prospects.

Grant hadn’t been in touch with either Blanchard or Scheffing since the
blowup a few days earlier. If Grant had his way, Blanchard would have
been fired, but he knew he’d be roundly criticized. Blanchard’s
knowledge was legendary, and Grant knew it. Success, after all, is the
best business.

To the side of his desk was a folder with about a dozen papers in it. It contained his notes on Austin.

He had resigned himself to not being able to draft Austin. But
throughout his research, his review of his notes during the weekend,
Blanchard was reaching a conclusion he feared he had blurred his own
senses into — he liked Austin better than a majority of the prospects
he had looked out.

Scheffing was sitting in his office, having wrapped up a series of
phone calls when the phone rang. “Bob Scheffing,” he answered.

“Do you think the story has gotten me, too?” the voice on the line asked.

Scheffing sat back. “I thought you were going to let it go, Jess.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Bob. You’ve known me a long time, known
the players I’ve liked and not liked. And I’m asking you, do you think
I’ve judged this kid right, or am I judging him because of his
circumstances?”

Scheffing thought about it for a moment, wanting to choose his words
carefully. “I think you CARE because of the circumstances, Jess. But I
think you’ve judged his talent because you’re a damn good scout.”

Blanchard thumbed through the papers in Austin’s file, not reading, just flipping back and forth.

“Then, Bob, on Tuesday I want you to draft this kid.”

Scheffing sighed deeply, resting his elbow on his desk, phone between
he ear and shoulder, his other hand run forcefully through his hair.

“Grant won’t pass it, Jess.”

“I don’t give a damn about Grant,” Blanchard shot back, muffled by his cigar.

“Well I have to, Jess. It’s my job, officially. I’m the one who has to answer to him.”

“I’m the talent evaluator here, Bob. And you just said my judgment of
this kid’s talent is sound. I don’t care when you get him, how you get
him, or how much he’s paid. All I care about is getting this kid in
here to prove himself. Because I guarantee he will.”

Scheffing was exasperated. He sided with Blanchard but had his own
battles to consider here. And, after a long night 2 days before the
draft, all he really wanted was to go home and be with his family for a
few hours.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow when the scouts get together to compare notes,” he said, trying to diffuse the conversation.

Blanchard ripped out his cigar. “Here’s my notes, Bob…sign James. End of note….SIGN…JAMES.”

Inside the office, Grant gathered some papers into a black briefcase.

“Thanks for introducing us, Bob,” Grant said sarcastically.

Scheffing was still in the corner, looking toward the door, hanging his head somewhat sheepishly.

“Kid’s been through a lot,” he said.

“Yes, and he had a golden opportunity here and he blew it,” Grant replied. “I have no sympathy for…”

“Oh BULL****,” Blanchard barked, rising to his feet. Grant’s head snapped up toward him.

“Excuse me?”

Blanchard waved his hand dismissively at Grant. “I’ve been at this a
long time, and I’ve been here since the beginning,” he said. “This
wasn’t an ‘opportunity’ in your eyes, Donald, this was you wanting to
put the kid through the damn ringer to get your kicks.”

“I’m not the one who brought him here, Jesse,” Grant said. “YOU did
that. YOU set this up, and then Bob wanted me to meet him at your
behest. So I agreed.”

“Now hold on,” Scheffing interjected. “Jesse didn’t push me to bring
him up here to talk to you, Donald, that was my decision. I thought you
should meet him, because I knew you were against the business side of
it.”

Grant laughed as he walked toward the door, briefcase in hand, an
overcoat over his arm. “That’s the only side there IS to it, Bob. The
kid is a PR nightmare. He’s a draft dodger and his father is using him to fulfill some…I don’t know…some meal-ticket vision he had…”

The door slammed shut, sending Grant stumbling back a few steps. Blanchard had had enough.

“You pompous ***,” Blanchard barked. “It’s a father who loves his son,
who dropped his life for months to take him across the country and try
to help him follow his dream. He’s a war veteran who was ready to let
his son go off to ‘Nam like everyone else, but circumstance, whatever
it may be, gave him an out. And if you — in your fine suits at your
fancy restaurants waving money around — you have the f—-‘in audacity
to sit there and say you wouldn’t have taken the out if it came your
way, then you’re even more full of **** than I already thought.”

Grant was shaking with anger, but speechless, which was fine because Blanchard had no intention of letting him talk.

“These people have asked for nothing but a chance, and I gave it to
them. I didn’t know I’d like what I saw, but I did. And I don’t just
mean the pitches. This kid is emotionally rock-solid in the face of
adversity, he’ll work hard and he’s got a load of talent. So you can
cut him off at the knees in the name of business and pass it off as
respect toward those poor kids stuck in this war, or you can open your
goddamn eyes for a minute and see what you’ve got in front of you.”

Grant barreled by Blanchard and opened the door. “And what is it I supposedly have in front of me?” he snapped.

“A story. You talk about risk, Donald…he’s no risk. We take him late,
we work with him. If the government comes for him, they take him and we
lose nothing. If he makes it, though, EVERYONE wants to talk to him.
Which means everyone wants to talk about us. And talk means money. And
let’s face it, THAT’s what it’s all about to you.”

Grant sneered before relaying his jacket over his arm, turning abruptly and storming down the hall.

An exasperated Blanchard turned to Scheffing, now propped against the window having watched the explosion.

“I didn’t mean for this to blow up, Bob,” Blanchard said.

Scheffing grinned while shaking his head. “I know, Jess. I know.”

Blanchard reached into his jacket pocket for another cigar. He stared
out to the field. Out beyond the right field fence, he saw Philip James
with his arm around his son, next to the only car in the lot. Their
loss of hope reached him from there.

“Why do you care so much, Jess,” Scheffing asked softly, sensing true pain on his friend’s face.

“Grant asked why he belonged here,” Blanchard replied while lighting
up, a no-no in Grant’s office that at the moment he couldn’t care less
about.

“How many kids caught up in this draft lottery had their paperwork lost?” Blanchard asked rhetorically. “Maybe 1 or 2 others?”

Scheffing nodded in agreement.

“There’s a fate at work here, Bob. I can’t put my finger on WHY he belongs here…”

He puffed a long, slow draw on his cigar, releasing a plume casually over Grant’s desk without a thought.

“I just know he does.”

The engraved oak door was open about halfway. Scheffing knocked twice as he opened it a push further.

Looking out the window onto the field was a man, nattily attired in a black suit slightly wrinkled from a long day but none the worse for wear. Largely bald, white hair around the back, he turned with a long face to greet his guests.

“Mr. Grant,” Scheffing said, dumbfounding Austin and freezing his father for a moment. “I’d like you to meet Austin James.”

“Sit, please,” he said, sweeping his hand in the direction of three chairs across from his desk, at which he sat himself in a high-backed leather job with cherry woodwork.

M. Donald Grant had been the Mets’ chairman since the team’s inception in 1962. His true expertise was as a stockbroker, and the money was his game. Everything came down to the bottom line, and, as the push for free agency was in its infancy, Grant had grown increasingly surly in demeanor.

Austin knew Grant was important, but Philip knew why.

Blanchard offered his seat to Scheffing, electing to stand. Austin sat between the general manager and his father as Grant leaned back, hands folded across his stomach.

“Why should you be here?” Grant asked Austin, no pleasantries, no nothing.

This whole day was a blur in Austin’s head and, frankly, thinking on his feet at this minute wasn’t something he was overly comfortable with.

“Because I’m good enough, sir,” he replied. “And I’ll work to get better.”

Grant sat stonefaced. “We sign you, we upset a lot of people. That hurts us, hurts our standing, hurts our fan base, hurts our business. My job is to not let that happen.”

Philip James looked about to burst, but it was Austin who was growing tired of the process.

“Sir, I’ve loved this team since it started. I’ve worked my *** off, and I’ll keep doing that. My situation with the military is what it is, so if that’s too big an issue to overcome, say so and let me get on with my life.”

Grant watched Austin as he rose from his chair, his father scared he was watching Austin blow his opportunity, but also pained to see the toll it was taking on his son.

Grant opened his mouth, but Austin wasn’t finished.

“I didn’t ask for this to happen. I didn’t ask for this war, I didn’t ask them to lose my enlistment information, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to have a bunch of pseudo-supporters of my country damn near kill me and others like me today in a supposed defense of our rights.”

“Nobody asked to be drafted, son…” Grant said.

“I am NOT your son” Austin shot back, pausing…”sir.”

He looked at his father, who looked so desperate to speak but was allowing his son to fight this climactic battle, or whatever it was, on his own.

“I am HIS son, and he’s fought and scratched and clawed for me to get one shot at my dream. And Mr. Blanchard, you let it happen today, sir, and I appreciate it immensely. But I am sick and tired of being judged, of being treated like I asked for this to be so hard and so ****ing complicated.”

Grant watched Austin, his face stuck in shock. Scheffing, who got up to walk nervously was sweating a river…Mr. Grant, I know you have dinner plans with your wife, but I have a kid downstairs who wants to come up here with his old man and curse you out was not exactly the sales pitch he had given. Blanchard casually took Scheffing’s chair.

Softly – so much so he didn’t even realize it was audible – Scheffing muttered “what are you doing?”

Austin’s senses were in overdrive, and he heard it as though the PA had blared it.

“What I’m doing, Mr. Scheffing, is making my pitch. Mr. Grant, you have a job to do, and that’s decide what’s best for this team. And if my risk doesn’t equal my reward, then that’s your decision. But I’ll tell you this much…you look at all I’ve gone through to get here and how I performed today after crawling out of a goddamn fire, and you think about that when you evaluate what my potential ‘reward’ is. I need work, and I need to improve. But I’m a dedicated, talented, tough son of a bitch, and frankly, I’m tired of running…running to hide, running to play, running to beat the system and running to convince people of my worth.”

Scheffing couldn’t watch any more, walking toward a bookcase in the corner. Blanchard hadn’t said a word, sitting with a slight grin that neither Philip nor Grant quite understood.

“Are you finished?” Grant asked.

Austin looked straight at Grant. “By all accounts, sir, that’s your decision to make. Not mine.”

And with that Austin was out of the office. He stormed down the hallway, getting halfway toward the elevator before he rested his arm against the wall.

Doubled over, Austin threw up violently. He dropped to a knee, trying to catch his breath. As he slowly rose to his feet, he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

Austin turned to his father looking tired and beaten. His face was still streaked in soot the water hadn’t erased, spit lined his lips and, as he looked up, a tear crept out of the corner of his eye.

“Jesus, Dad…what did I just do?”

Blanchard called Austin over as he walked through the gate. He’d probably thrown 25 pitches total, but Blanchard had no interest in putting the kid through more than he had to, given the day Austin had.

Austin removed his cap, wiping his forearm across his brow before fitting his hat back on. Jack flipped him the ball halfway up the first-base line.

“You’ve got good stuff, kid,” Jack said. “I’m pulling for you.”

“Thanks, Jack…you were a great help.”

Jack walked toward the first-base dugout, waving a hand to Blanchard and Austin’s dad as he went down the stops. “Thanks,” Philip shouted in response.

“Come,” Blanchard said. “Let’s walk.”

The 3 headed out toward right field, Austin still holding the ball in his glove, flipping it occasionally.

“Austin, you know the issues here, right?” Blanchard asked.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, knowing them all too well.

“I’ve spoken with your father at length, as did Bob Scheffing, our general manager.”

Austin almost blanched, now realizing the decision-maker was the unrecognized third party.

“You’re a good kid, you work hard, and I was very impressed with what I saw today…”

Austin looked at Blanchard as his words seemed to hang in the air. “But…”

Blanchard chuckled. “But, you’re a PR nightmare, kid. There is no way to spin this that saves us from fallout. You’re a draft dodger and, regardless of whether I agree or disagree with you on the war, we’re going to have a lot of fans here with sons overseas getting shot at who aren’t going to be pleased you’re safe in the confines of professional sports.”

“He’s not a draft dodger…” Philip cut in.

“Oh come now, Philip,” Blanchard said stiffly. “You can argue semantics with me all you like, but the bottom line is he was supposed to be in Vietnam by now and he’s not. He doesn’t have an exemption…”

“He’s a student,” Philip shot back.

Blanchard laughed, unintentionally, but as he often tended to when countered with an argument he found absurd. “Who enrolled right after the paperwork screwup you’re taking advantage of.”

Philip began to speak as Austin looked downcast. Blanchard halted everything.

“Listen, I’m on your side here,” he said. He put his hand on Austin’s weapon of choice.

“This arm, kid, has a lot of life in it,” Blanchard said. “I like you, I truly do. And I like your stuff. I like everything I saw today.”

They were entering the bullpen now, and Austin stopped to look around. The experience had been indescribable…here he was, his team’s stadium, his team’s mound…Seaver’s mound.

“Mr. Blanchard,” he said looking him right in the eye. “I belong here.”

“I know, son,” Blanchard replied, looking at his watch, the lights of the stadium had been on for a while now.

“I have a meeting…Austin, I told your Dad I’ll go to bat for you. And I will. But this decision goes well above me.”

Austin shook Blanchard’s hand, and Philip did the same.

“Thanks for all you’ve done, Mr. Blanchard,” Austin said. In his head he knew this could very be it. But Blanchard had gotten him to pitch on the Shea Stadium mound. Now he just hoped he’d be back.

Blanchard headed back toward home plate, as Austin and Philip walked out of the players’ parking lot behind the bullpen toward their car, silently.

“Austin!” a voice called as they reached the car.

Austin and his dad turned around, to see Blanchard at the gate.

“Come with me,” he barked.

Austin and his dad reached the gate. Standing next to Blanchard was Bob Scheffing.

“What’s going on?” Philip asked.

Scheffing looked at Blanchard, then looked at Austin.

“Hope you got one more pitch in you, kid,” Scheffing said. “‘Cause it better be your best.”

Jack fired the ball back to Austin with a little extra giddyup, pointing at him encouragingly. Austin hadn’t thrown a curve that sharp in a long time. He had a tendency to let go before he’d really gotten the arm coming down, depriving it of its rotation and making it loose. Too loose, and it hangs in the zone. He’d given up 3 homers in his high school career. Two were on hanging curveballs.

Now he was forced to consider what to do next. He was only a few pitches in, and while he’d been impressive, he knew he couldn’t just rest on one dynamite curveball as his offspeed offering.

He kept glancing at his father, with Blanchard and the man he didn’t recognize. This was before big media, when general managers were in the background, unknown names and lesser known faces. Austin only knew that, whoever this man was, he was involved.

And he was involved with Philip, who was trying to provide an assurance he had no room to provide. He certainly couldn’t overrule the government…his “I outrank you” bravado to the clerk at Selective Service was one thing, but he knew full well that he wouldn’t be able to pull the same if the government legitimately came calling for Austin.

So the three watched as Austin fired 3 fastballs, 2 4-seamers and a 2-seamer, each between knee and mid-thigh on the corners. Blanchard wanted to see more, particularly if he would go to the changeup, and Scheffing was looking like he wanted to make a pitch of his own but was held up by reservation.

“Gentlemen,” Philip said to break the awkward silence, “he’s got the goods. He is a remarkable kid, intense, a hard worker, eager to learn, coachable. He’s afraid of nothing and what I can guarantee you is that if you take a chance on him you will get everything he has.”

Scheffing hung his head a moment before raising it again. “For however long we have him.”

And here was the crux of the matter. Scheffing didn’t doubt Philip’s confidence was well placed. He didn’t doubt Austin’s makeup, and he liked his stuff. Just looking at him, Scheffing wanted to see more…a big, strong kid with great form and who, at least from what he’d seen, could knock Washington off the dollar bill from 60-feet 6-inches.

Philip was exasperated with Scheffing, though really more at the situation. This was a roadblock he couldn’t work around. He couldn’t promise the government wouldn’t show up, he couldn’t promise the fans and media wouldn’t rip the team apart for harboring what in many eyes would be a draft dodger, and he couldn’t tell Scheffing there wasn’t a risk, because he knew better.

Austin was in his backstep when he changed his grip. Something told him to do it, something he couldn’t explain. His right arm separated a bit from the glove, his left arm tucked tight as he strode forward. His fingers enveloped the ball, sitting back slightly in his hand. His arm action was solid and he released.

Blanchard sat forward, emitting a quiet “Yes” as he watched. The ball came in mid-thigh, maybe a bit higher, looking somewhat grooved. About 10 feet from the plate, it hung a left, diving to knee height an inch off the plate. Jack hung with it and framed it fabulously again.

“Well Jesus Christ,” Blanchard gasped.

“That’s the one,” Philip said, smiling.

“That bite, late…thing looks straight as an arrow…”

He turned around.

“Bob, he’s worth the risk.”

Scheffing sensed a battle coming on, which, given that he liked what he saw as well, he wasn’t well prepared to engage in.

“Blanch, I like him…I like what I’ve seen, but you know the position it puts us in.”

“The Miracle Mets, right now, can do no wrong in this city, Bob,” Blanchard countered. “There may be a time we couldn’t take this chance, but this isn’t that time. Hell, it’s probably the only time we could.”

Philip wanted to speak, wanted to interject. But his greatest interpersonal skill was knowing when to let others do the talking, and right now, Blanchard was the best voice he could have.

“But if he gets taken from us…” Scheffing started to reply, before Blanchard cut him off.

“…We lose a late draft pick. Look, I’m not saying we draft him in the first round, Bob. But the kid has tools, he’s projectable and, if we can get his stuff in late rounds, with his makeup…I mean, the kid was carried out of a fire not 2 hours ago and he’s performing perfectly…”

Austin saw the conversation was getting more intense, but he couldn’t make out the words. What the hell is going on

“We have no demands, Bob,” Philip James said. “We’re in no position to do so. But if you pass up on my son, you’ll be passing up on someone special, someone who’ll help your organization…even if he never makes it. He’s that kind of kid.”

Scheffing threw his coat over his bent left arm, extending his right to Philip James.

“Philip, all I can do is give me word it will be discussed. Beyond that, I can’t commit to anything. It’s been a pleasure.”

The two shook hands as Scheffing made his exit. Philip watched him leave, looked out to Austin — who was now mixing pitches at will with only Blanchard watching — and then to Blanchard.

“So what did that mean?” he asked.

Blanchard stood, stretching his arms high.

“It means,” he said as he rested his hand on Philip’s shoulder and began walking back to the door onto the field, “exactly what he said it means.”

Philip didn’t follow, frozen by the noncommital response. Blanchard turned around.

“Bob’s a straight shooter, Philip. If he said it will be discussed, it will, and I don’t mean just a touched-on formality.”

Philip stepped toward Blanchard. “So, you’re saying there’s a chance?”

“If I have anything to say about it,” Blanchard said as he walked to the gate.

“You bet your *** there is.”